


Lost Stars

by halfsweet



Series: Parallel AU [14]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, Mentions of Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: Brendon is still in disbelief over what happened that night.





	Lost Stars

**Author's Note:**

> It's not the big™ part yet, but I thought I'd write something :)
> 
> Heavily inspired by NSYNC's Gone. Title from Adam Levine's Lost Stars.
> 
> (also I wrote this whole thing using my phone bc I can't open my laptop and now my fingers are aching)
> 
> ((andddd make sure you've read the [previous part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160170) before reading this, or you'll probably be confused))

It still feels like a dream. Like a nightmare that's too real that he can't wake up from. He tries to convince himself that maybe, _maybe_ he fell asleep inside the car when he went out and bought dinner for them. Or maybe he wasn't even awake yet that day.

Maybe if he tries _really_ hard, he would wake up inside his car just off the roadside or on their bed, in their room—with Patrick's clothes still inside their closet.

But either he doesn't try hard enough or the whole thing _is_ real. He tries to imagine that it's the former, but he knows better. He knows what happened, and what happened is as real as it gets.

Patrick's gone.

-

Nobody knows that it happened. Nobody knows that Patrick left him that night after he confronted him. Spencer doesn't. Pete certainly doesn't, because if he does, he would have called him already.

It's been 47 hours since Patrick left.

47 hours since he found their closet half-empty.

47 hours without anything from Patrick.

44 hours since he made his way back to their bedroom from the studio.

43 hours since he lied on Patrick's side of bed.

And 40 hours since he finally got his tears to stop.

His eyes are puffy now, dry and red, and he doesn't think he's ever shed this much tears in his entire life. He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in the Patrick-scented pillow that has slowly begun to lose the unique smell, then tries to close his eyes.

It's been 48 hours since Patrick left.

And he's counting every second.

-

Morning used to be him cooking for Patrick. Morning used to be him singing and spending time with Patrick before they both went on with their daily lives.

Then, morning became him trying to get Patrick to eat breakfast. Him trying to get Patrick to eat his meds.

And now, morning is him sitting in the kitchen, two plates and two glasses laid out in front of him, but they're all empty.

Just like the seat across him.

He tries to keep up the normal-not-so-normal routine, in case Patrick comes home.

But morning has now become him staring at the empty plates, empty glasses, empty seat, and an almost-empty bottle of pill in an empty house.

-

Spencer drops by unexpectedly that afternoon.

And he hasn't budged an inch from the kitchen since morning.

“Hey—” Spencer pauses mid-sentence, his eyes going wide.

He knows what Spencer must be thinking. How shitty he must have looked.

Spencer enters the kitchen, his steps slow and careful, eyes fixed on him.

But his eyes are fixed at the empty seat.

“Brendon, what happened?”

He shrugs. He can't bring himself to say the words.

Because saying the words aloud only makes everything even more real.

“Where's Patrick?”

His throat bobs.

“Hey, why are you crying? Come on, talk to me.”

Crying? Is he crying? Again?

He lifts his hand up to touch his face, and Spencer was right. His cheek feels wet, though his eyes feel nothing. They do nothing to hold his tears back, just like how he does nothing to push Spencer back when Spencer puts his arm around him.

“Brendon, hey. What happened? Where's Patrick? Want me to call him?”

He shakes his head. The back of his throat is starting to get sore.

“That's it. I'm calling him.”

“Don't.” He manages to croak out with his hoarse voice. “He went out.”

That's it. Patrick went out. He'll be back. He didn't leave.

He didn't leave _him._

“Okay.” Spencer tugs at a chair to sit down next to him while keeping a comforting hand on his back. “Hey. Come on. What's up?”

“It's nothing,” he says, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I just—”

_“Is that why I have to take pills? Is that why you don't? Is that why you smoke? Because pills are too good for—”_

“—just got a little high and had a weird trip is all.”

Spencer eyes him suspiciously, but eventually nods. “You'll tell me if something's wrong, right? Or Patrick?”

He doesn't say anything. How can he?

Instead, he just nods and swallows the lump in his throat before he pushes himself off the stool. “I'm just gonna head to bed. I don't think I'm feeling so good right now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Spencer lets him go. “Sorry I came in uninvited like this.”

He shakes his head, not saying anything else as he drags his feet to their bedroom. He passes the living room, and it's as if his feet are stuck in place, his eyes fixing on the couch that Patrick sat the other night when he was calm. Before he blew up.

Before everything was over as soon as he opened his mouth.

_“If you're tired of me, just leave. I won't stop you.”_

The hot sting at the back of his eyes return again, and he quickly makes his way to the bedroom before Spencer can see tears dropping again.

He ends up spending the rest of the day lying on Patrick's side of bed.

-

_“You're finally awake, sleepyhead.”_

_He groaned at the small giggling sound from the voice he loved so much. He rolled over onto his side and buried his face in the crook of Patrick's neck, hand sliding around his waist to pull him close. “What time is it?”_

_“Almost twelve.” Patrick answered, his fingers threading in his hair and massaging his scalp. He purred at the feeling. “Still tired?”_

_He made a non-committal hum. “Tours are always tiring. I'm just glad I'm back home now.”_

_He opened his eyes just in time to see Patrick beaming at him, his blue eyes shining and smile warm._

_“I'm glad you're back home, too.”_

He wakes up with another fresh tracks of tears on his face.

-

He's sitting again in the kitchen with two empty plates, two empty glasses, and an almost-empty bottle of pill.

And the seat in front of him is still empty.

-

Spencer drops by again during evening.

He's still sitting in the kitchen.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

He lifts his shoulders. His lips are dry. His throat is dry. Everything feels dry. “I don't know.”

“Is Patrick home yet?”

“He went out.”

Spencer places a hand on his shoulder. “Bren, something clearly happened. Did you talk to Patrick about what's bothering you?”

He nods. “I did.” _Then he left._

“What did he say?”

_“If you feel like things are changing, I promise you we won't. My feelings won't.”_

“That he'll stay by my side no matter what.”

“Then what's got you so down?”

His throat closes up, and when did his eyes become wet again?

“Bren—”

“He went out.” He whispers despite the aching lump in his throat.

“I know, you said—”

“And he never came back.”

-

Spencer ends up staying the night at the house.

-

He can't sleep. No matter how much he tosses and turns on the bed—Patrick’s side of bed—his mind refuses to fall asleep. His eyes don't feel heavy. But his body is tired.

He picks up his phone to check the time. His eyes squint at the brightness, but instead of looking at the time, he's staring at the wallpaper.

Patrick was next to him, smiling so wide that the corner of his eyes crinkled, his cheeks round and flushed with joy.

He can't remember the last time Patrick was this happy. Can't remember the last time Patrick smiled.

He places the phone on the pillow beside him, the wallpaper still showing.

It's not the same, but it's close. He can imagine Patrick lying next to him, all happy and smiling.

He sighs and closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it's already shining bright outside.

His phone has already turned itself off.

And Patrick's _still_ not beside him.

-

He's inside his car again at night, parked just outside Patrick's studio. He's turned off his engine and the lights. Other than his, the only car inside the parking lot is Patrick's. Pete's car isn't there. Joe's car isn't there.

It's just Patrick's.

And his.

He could walk through the front door and see Patrick again. He could talk to Patrick again, try to understand him this time around.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't get out of his car. He doesn't walk through the front door. He doesn't see Patrick. He doesn't talk to Patrick.

Instead, he's sitting in his car, heart breaking and eyes stinging.

Patrick emerges from the studio a while later, slumping as he locks the door.

He swallows. There he is. Patrick's right there.

But he stays hidden as Patrick makes his way over to his car before getting in. Patrick doesn't start his car, and neither does he. He can see Patrick's outline from the distance.

Patrick's just sitting there in his seat, hands holding the steering wheel as he drops his head on top of it. He stays that way for some time, causing a wave of worry to crash over him.

Is Patrick inside his head again?

His fingers involuntarily clench around the steering wheel.

He hates _it._ He hates whatever's in Patrick's head. He hates that _it_ is stronger than him.

But he doesn't hate Patrick. He can _never_ hate him. _He would never hate him._

_“Brendon.”_

He blinks, feeling a wetness in his eyes. For a second, he thought he heard Patrick call his name, crying.

Patrick eventually starts his car and pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

He could have followed Patrick, find out where he's staying, whether he has a company, keep him safe from afar.

He could have followed Patrick and talk to him again.

He could have followed Patrick.

But he doesn't.

-

The house feels cold lately. Empty. Lifeless.

Or is that just him?

Spencer is at the house again in the morning.

And he's in the kitchen again when Spencer finds him.

Two empty plates.

Two empty glasses.

One almost-empty bottle of pill.

And one empty seat.

“Jesus, Brendon.” Spencer sighs. “When was the last time you ate?”

He shakes his head slowly, staring blankly at the empty plate across him.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He shakes his head again. He can't sleep. He can't sleep in an empty bed. He can't sleep knowing Patrick's still out there.

He can't sleep in case Patrick comes back.

“You need to sleep, Brendon. This is getting unhealthy.”

When he opens his mouth, his eyes never leave the empty white, ceramic plate.

“Not until he comes home.”

-

He splays his fingers on the bed—his side of bed, because he's lying on Patrick's side again—and his chest feels as if it were being stabbed at the empty spaces between his fingers.

_“Brendon.” Patrick laughed as he slid his fingers between his. “Brendon, your hands are so warm.”_

He closes his fingers, curling them into a loose fist as Patrick slowly fades away. Tears are prickling at the back of his eyes, and he rubs his eyes furiously before tears can fall.

He grabs his—Patrick’s—pillow and trudges out of he bedroom. The bedroom is too painful for him. It reminds him too much of Patrick.

He walks past the guest room, the door wide open, and pauses.

_Patrick's sobs echo throughout the room, his shoulders shaking with each sob and stuttered breathing. He hugs his knees tighter to his chest as his sobs quiet down into silent weeps._

He immediately tears his gaze away from the bed and continues walking until he reaches the living room.

_“So what? Maybe I don't want to take them anymore! Maybe I don't want to depend on them like I'm some kind of— some kind of sick person! I'm fine without the pills!”_

He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to block out that night. His pace quickens, wanting to get away from the living room, and when he opens his eyes, he's greeted with the dark kitchen in front of him.

_“I'm not lying. I really did take my pills.”_

By this point, he's already dashing to his studio in the basement. Anytime he opens his eyes, everywhere he looks, he always sees Patrick. Always hears his voice.

It's almost like he never left.

He's finally in his studio, dark and only illuminated by the streetlights coming through the window, and he lies down on the couch, hugging the pillow to himself.

It's cold and quiet. Too quiet.

The crickets aren't chirping. There are no cars out and about. No nothing.

His eyelids begin to droop, but right as his gaze lands on his logo perched on the wall, his eyes don't feel tired anymore.

_“Babe? What are you doing here? I've been looking everywhere for you.”_

_Patrick broke his gaze from the lit neon 'Urielectric’ logo and turned to him, his eyes wide and fingers picking at his nails. “Too much.”_

_He straightened his back, understanding what Patrick meant. He made his way over to Patrick and sat down beside him, placing his hand over his so Patrick could continue with his stimming._

_“We had a performance. It was— people— and lights— too much.” Patrick fell quiet, but his hands never once stopped moving over his._

_He leaned back against the couch when he reckoned that Patrick had gotten most of his energy out. He pulled Patrick along with him so Patrick's head was resting on his chest, and he tangled his fingers in Patrick's hair._

_Patrick was fiddling with the button on his shirt, and he waited until the crease in Patrick's forehead was gone to continue talking._

_“How are you feeling?”_

_Patrick hummed and snuggled closer to him, arm now thrown over his torso. “A little better.”_

_“Yeah?” He planted a kiss in the top of Patrick's head. “What do you see?”_

_“Guitars. Drums.”_

_“What do you hear?”_

_“Your heartbeat. It sounds orange.” Patrick paused. “You feel orange.”_

_A smile crept on his face. “And orange is your favourite colour.”_

_Patrick's head brushed against his chest in a small nod. “You're my favourite colour.”_

_It had been years, but Patrick still managed to find ways to make butterflies flutter in his stomach. It's so ridiculous he loved every moment, every second, and every word of it._

_“Pastel pink.” He murmured._

_“What?”_

_“You feel pastel pink to me.” He pressed another kiss to Patrick's temple. “Soft and full of love.”_

_“Orange and pink.” Patrick mused. “That's a beautiful sunset.”_

_He hummed as he stroked Patrick's hair. “We’d make a beautiful sunset.”_

_“Even when the sun is out, when everything is going dark, we still have stars to guide us.”_

_“That's pretty deep.” He chuckled, but he kept the words in his mind._

_Patrick nodded again, this time accompanied with a small yawn._

_“You should go to sleep. You must be tired.” He brushed Patrick's hair and wrapped his arms around him. “I'll be here when you wake up.”_

He pulls the pillow over his eyes and rolls over to the other side so he doesn't have to see the logo on the wall.

The sun has already set. The sky has turned dark.

But there's not a single star in sight.

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget to leave kudos and comments :))


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